over.
“Dianne? Miss St. Clair? My God, woman, what the hell are you doing here?”
Somehow she still managed to look beautiful, in spite of her disheveled look, dress and blouse blood splattered, both nylons with runs, face mud smeared, but amazingly, her lovely blond hair still combed.
“Captain Collingwood sent me back here, to see if I could round up anyone from the team that might report in.”
“Incoming!”
He grabbed Dianne by the shoulder and pulled her down to the ground by his side. More shells burst across Ford Island, one appearing to hit
Oklahoma
, then several more, these falling short, crashing into the sprawl of workshops back toward ten-ten dry dock, or what was left of it after the torpedo strikes against it in the third-wave attack. The continual higher-pitched shrieks of the five-, six-, and eight-inchers now were scattering down around the base. Overhead, another flare popped. Guns from all across the harbor were firing upward, more than a few panicked men most likely thinking the bombardment was coming from airplanes overhead.
The hurricane roar from shells washed over them. He tried to collect his wits, still on the ground, breathing hard, his left arm throbbing as he protectively held it over young Miss St. Clair, who in the strange, hellish blue light forced what she must have assumed was a brave smile, though the terror in her eyes was obvious.
“Incoming!”
She pressed in against his side, a shuddering sob escaping her. He turned his head to look up, wondering for a second if he could actually see the passage of the three-quarter-ton monsters. More detonationsignited within the flaming sea of oil from the ruptured oil tanks, vast sheets of burning oil soaring hundreds of feet into the air, spreading out, raining down. There were distant screams. He dreaded to think who was screaming—most likely firefighters now engulfed in the inferno.
He forced himself to concentrate. It was all random chance now… Either I lie here terrified, or I get up, accept the chance, and do something, anything.
He took a deep breath, pressed against the ground with his one good hand, and stood up.
“Come on, Dianne, where’s Collingwood?”
She came to her feet, shaking, leaning against his side for support.
“He’s set up shop at the radio repair shack, down by the east channel,” she stuttered. “Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
He was lying, but he just didn’t feel right leaving her out here in this chaos, random or not. The Japs most likely did have a map of the base, and just might try and toss a few shells into what was left of CinCPac headquarters. Not that the radio repair shack would be any safer; it was less than a hundred yards north of the east channel, the main tieoff basin for several dozen destroyers and light cruisers.
“Come on, Dianne, I need you to guide me there,” he said, figuring that it’d give her something to focus on, which it did.
She tried to run, but was still wearing a rather ridiculous set of heels. He was tempted to tell her to take the damn things off, but the road they turned onto was carpeted with broken glass, burning vehicles, and smack in the middle of the road the wreckage of what appeared to be a Japanese plane, still smoldering, the blackened, skeletal pilot still inside. Dead were simply dragged over to the side of the road, their faces covered with a shirt, a blanket, or a scrap of cloth.
Another brace of shells howled in. He didn’t push her to the ground; shards of broken glass were everywhere. Already he was learning to judge the sound. The first new salvo thundered intoFord’s Island, impacting into the channel, the second salvo again high, hitting into the north end of the base and the inferno of the oil tank farm.
They turned a corner: a building, burning fiercely, white hot, screams from within, a volunteer fire crew using, of all things, a couple of garden hoses, out of which only a trickle of water was emerging—absurd
“Dianne? Miss St. Clair? My God, woman, what the hell are you doing here?”
Somehow she still managed to look beautiful, in spite of her disheveled look, dress and blouse blood splattered, both nylons with runs, face mud smeared, but amazingly, her lovely blond hair still combed.
“Captain Collingwood sent me back here, to see if I could round up anyone from the team that might report in.”
“Incoming!”
He grabbed Dianne by the shoulder and pulled her down to the ground by his side. More shells burst across Ford Island, one appearing to hit
Oklahoma
, then several more, these falling short, crashing into the sprawl of workshops back toward ten-ten dry dock, or what was left of it after the torpedo strikes against it in the third-wave attack. The continual higher-pitched shrieks of the five-, six-, and eight-inchers now were scattering down around the base. Overhead, another flare popped. Guns from all across the harbor were firing upward, more than a few panicked men most likely thinking the bombardment was coming from airplanes overhead.
The hurricane roar from shells washed over them. He tried to collect his wits, still on the ground, breathing hard, his left arm throbbing as he protectively held it over young Miss St. Clair, who in the strange, hellish blue light forced what she must have assumed was a brave smile, though the terror in her eyes was obvious.
“Incoming!”
She pressed in against his side, a shuddering sob escaping her. He turned his head to look up, wondering for a second if he could actually see the passage of the three-quarter-ton monsters. More detonationsignited within the flaming sea of oil from the ruptured oil tanks, vast sheets of burning oil soaring hundreds of feet into the air, spreading out, raining down. There were distant screams. He dreaded to think who was screaming—most likely firefighters now engulfed in the inferno.
He forced himself to concentrate. It was all random chance now… Either I lie here terrified, or I get up, accept the chance, and do something, anything.
He took a deep breath, pressed against the ground with his one good hand, and stood up.
“Come on, Dianne, where’s Collingwood?”
She came to her feet, shaking, leaning against his side for support.
“He’s set up shop at the radio repair shack, down by the east channel,” she stuttered. “Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
He was lying, but he just didn’t feel right leaving her out here in this chaos, random or not. The Japs most likely did have a map of the base, and just might try and toss a few shells into what was left of CinCPac headquarters. Not that the radio repair shack would be any safer; it was less than a hundred yards north of the east channel, the main tieoff basin for several dozen destroyers and light cruisers.
“Come on, Dianne, I need you to guide me there,” he said, figuring that it’d give her something to focus on, which it did.
She tried to run, but was still wearing a rather ridiculous set of heels. He was tempted to tell her to take the damn things off, but the road they turned onto was carpeted with broken glass, burning vehicles, and smack in the middle of the road the wreckage of what appeared to be a Japanese plane, still smoldering, the blackened, skeletal pilot still inside. Dead were simply dragged over to the side of the road, their faces covered with a shirt, a blanket, or a scrap of cloth.
Another brace of shells howled in. He didn’t push her to the ground; shards of broken glass were everywhere. Already he was learning to judge the sound. The first new salvo thundered intoFord’s Island, impacting into the channel, the second salvo again high, hitting into the north end of the base and the inferno of the oil tank farm.
They turned a corner: a building, burning fiercely, white hot, screams from within, a volunteer fire crew using, of all things, a couple of garden hoses, out of which only a trickle of water was emerging—absurd
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